


Words, Words, Words

by Thistlerose



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M, PWP, Shakespeare, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-22
Updated: 2010-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 08:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim likes reciting Shakespeare in bed.  A kink meme fill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words, Words, Words

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Слова, слова, слова](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2575703) by [Amelia_Harper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Harper/pseuds/Amelia_Harper)



McCoy doesn’t know what Jim’s deal is. Maybe he’s overly nostalgic about the time he got laid backstage during his high school production of _Julius Caesar_. Maybe some asshole back in Riverside told him too many times that he’s a semi-literate punk, and he feels a constant need to prove the asshole wrong. Maybe – and this seems likely, if somewhat insulting to McCoy’s technique – the kid gets turned on by the sound of his own voice.

McCoy is curious, but he doubts he’ll ever ask Jim. For one thing, he’s not 100% sure the kid’s aware of what’s coming out of his mouth while he fucks McCoy into the mattress. For another, McCoy has discovered – to his great surprise – that he likes a little bit of mystery in his sex life.

“Excellent wretch,” Jim moans into McCoy’s back, “perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee.” He rotates his hips, burying himself even deeper in McCoy. He thumbs the head of McCoy’s leaking cock, teasing the slit while McCoy chokes out a half-sob and pushes back against him greedily.

“And when I love thee not, chaos is come again.”

It’s _Othello_ , McCoy thinks, dazedly pleased with himself for retaining that much higher brain function. Hmm, that one didn’t end well, did it?

While he’s trying to remember – he should _know_ this, damn it – Jim pulls back, then snaps his hips forward, fisting McCoy’s cock, jolting another inarticulate cry from his lips. He’s close now, so close. If Jim does that again…

But instead, his words punctuated by rapid, shallow thrusts, Jim intones, “My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep. The more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”

God, that’s pretty. Pretty like Jim. (Yeah, so much for higher brain function.) There’s a pool of pre-come staining the sheets under McCoy’s belly. Beads of sweat roll down his cheeks, drip from his nipples. He’s just one big tangle of nerves right now, and Jim is setting them all alight.

Without warning, Jim starts pounding into him again, angling his hips so his cock nudges McCoy’s prostate. “Come for me, baby,” he groans. “Come on, come on, let go, let me feel you—”

 _That isn’t Shakespeare,_ McCoy wants to say, but when he opens his mouth, what emerges is a high-pitched keening that would probably embarrass him if he weren’t suddenly in the throes of a massive orgasm. He clenches around Jim’s cock, squeezes his eyes shut, and claws at the sheets. Hot semen splatters his chest and Jim’s wrist, as the kid keeps pumping, squeezing, wringing every last drop from him.

Spent, McCoy sags. Jim continues to stroke his softening cock, and to thrust raggedly until his own orgasm takes him. It isn’t long.

When he’s through, when he’s slipped out of McCoy, and flopped down beside him, heedless of the sticky mess they’ve made of the sheets, McCoy stirs. He finds himself blinking stupidly into vivid blue eyes, at swollen pink lips. Wordlessly, he reaches for Jim, drapes an arm across his shoulders. He doesn’t quite have the energy to pull him closer, but somehow they end up nose-to-nose, then lips to lips. They kiss slowly, tongues sliding languorously against each other. Their fingers tangle loosely.

At length they pause for air, and McCoy says, his voice wobbly and hoarse, “I like the poetry. Mean, I’m a doctor, not a theater critic, but y’er good. It was a convincing performance.”

Jim grins. Stroking the damp hair that curves around McCoy’s ear, he whispers, “Doubt that the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love.”

It would be nice, McCoy thinks, if Jim could find a way to say it using his own words. But no, McCoy doesn’t doubt. Not for a second.

7/10/10


End file.
